A Bowl of Cherries
by Channel D
Summary: From the events in the season 7 episode Jetlag, Tim feels he owes Gibbs for saving his life, but Gibbs just brushes off Tim's thanks. When Tim tries to prove himself, the results could be deadly. Six chapters, written for the NFA White Elephant Exchange.
1. Chapter 1

**A Bowl of Cherries**

**by channelD**

_written for_: the 2010 NFA White Elephant Exchange in which prompt sets were swapped.  
_rating_: K plus  
_main characters_: Tim and Gibbs (non-slash)  
_genre_: drama  
_**spoiler warning and prompt**_: "On the episode _Jetlag_, we saw that Gibbs saved McGee's life. This time, however, I'd like to read a story about how McGee saves Gibbs' life-and endangers his in order to do that."  
_setting_: season 7, shortly after the events in _Jetlag_

**xoxoxoxoxo**

_disclaimer_: I still own nothing of NCIS.

**xoxoxoxoxo**_  
_

_I just want to say—and I mean this sincerely—thanks, boss. Thanks for risking your life to save mine._

Crap. That sounds like a greeting card, Tim thought. There must be something else I could say to him…

_You're the best boss I've ever had. Not even my boss in the potato chip factory moved as quickly as you did the time I got the sleeve of my factory shirt caught in the convey-o-belt. And he was young enough to be your son!_

Uh…no.

_That was an awesome thing you did back there in the parking garage, boss. You rock!_

Did I really come up with that? I will never watch MTV again!

**xoxoxoxoxo**

"Hi, Dad! Just thought I'd call and see how you're doing."

"_Doing fine, Tim. We're just fine out here. Finally getting a little cool air down from Canada. This is one of the warmest springs on record."_

Tim smiled. The first thing Midwesterners always talked about was the weather. "I was hoping you'd be cooling down. Washington's still like a sauna."

"_So what's on your mind, son?"_

"Why does something have to be on my mind? Can't a boy call his one and only dad to say 'hi' and 'I love you'?"

"_Yes, but this is the second time this week that you've called. Your mother will be sad that she missed your call. Again."_

Tim felt guilty, knowing he'd timed it this way. "I'll make it up to her. I just…"

"_Tim?"_

"…I love you, Dad."

"_And I love you, too, son. Are you having problems with Gibbs?"_

He fought the urge to hang up. Even when he didn't say anything, his father seemed to know him all too well. "There was…an incident last week. In the field. We went to a parking garage to stop a suspect, and…he came at us with his car. Gibbs pushed me out of the way, and got slightly injured. Did you ever save anyone's life, Dad? While you were in the Navy?"

"_Gibbs saved your life?"_

"Dad…"

"_Well, there were some classified missions I can't talk about, Tim, but…no, not directly. Not in the way that you agents face danger every day. Gibbs saved your life?"_

Tim sighed. "Yes, and it bothers me."

"_Why is that?"_

"I…I don't know, exactly. It just does." He paused, unable to go on.

"_Tim, I think you need to figure out just what is troubling you, before you can ask for my help in fixing it."_

_I wasn't…_ "Gotta go, Dad. I'll talk to you later. Love to Mom." Tim hung up quickly before his father could say more.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Tim knew that he had a problem, and that his problem's name was _Gibbs_.

For the third time this week, Gibbs was already at work when Tim came in. Being so early was unlike Gibbs, of course; his team suspected that he normally lingered at home as long as he could, drinking his favorite brand of coffee. But now, since the accident that had left him with a damaged wing, he was dependent on public transportation and so left home early enough to not be late in case there was a slowdown on the Metro.

Tim had pushed himself to likewise get in early each day, hoping to talk to Gibbs. But try though he might, he couldn't muster up the nerve to get his boss to do more than grunt when Tim tried to say 'thank you' once again.

"McGee, why is this so important to you?" Ziva would ask him, once the boss was out of earshot. "Gibbs has heard you say 'thanks'. He does not need or want anything more."

"But _I_ do," said Tim. "_I_ do."

What do you say to someone who has risked everything for you, and probably didn't give it a second's thought?

**xoxoxoxoxo**

The music in Abby's lab was loud (_typical!_) when Tim walked in. This morning's tune sounded kind of nice, though, in a loud way. Harmonious. Abby was dancing lightly while seated on a stool, staring at the monitor. She sensed, rather than heard, him come in, and turned with a smile. "Timmy!" Bounding off the stool, she ran forward and smothered him with a hug.

"You remember what I said, Timster," she added, when she loosened the grip and finally let him breathe. "Until you cheer up, you're going to get at least one big cheer-up hug from me a day. Have you cheered up?"

His face wavered between a smile and a frown. "No," he admitted. It had been a rough week. "What's the song?" he asked, trying to divert her attention.

"The Pickled People, doing a cover of _Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries._ One of my favorite old songs."

"I don't know it."

"McGee, no offense but the sum total of your pop cultural knowledge would fit on the head of a pin. And a very small pin, at that. _Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries_ is a fabulous song from the early 1930s." She turned down the volume and sang with the group:

_Life is just a bowl of cherries;  
Don't make it serious;  
Life's too mysterious.  
You work, you save, you worry so…_

Then she playfully altered it:

_Gibbs is just a bowl of cherries…_

Tim snorted. "He might be easier to deal with if that were the case."

"Timmy…"

"Abby, he treats me like a kid! I try to thank him for saving my life back in the parking garage, and he just brushes it off, like it's his job to babysit me."

Abby only raised her eyebrows slightly.

"Come on, Abby! Yes, he's a supervisor. But that doesn't mean his team can't take care of themselves!"

"Have you tried telling him that?"

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Tim had, in fact. And he tried doing it again, and again. But each time, the words froze in his throat. Gradually he came to accept that Gibbs would not change, that the older man would always treat him like a kid, and that Tim could either learn to live with it…or else leave NCIS.

He talked to Ducky about it. "Well, Timothy, you are going to have to find a way to change Jethro's attitude. Or else, just accept it."

"I _can't_ accept it. I didn't think it would get this bad, but it's really started to gnaw at me."

"Then, get _him_ to change."

"How? By somehow saving his life?"

"Is that not what you agents do, from time to time? 'Have each other's backs,' as Tony would say?"

Tim shook his head. "It's not that easy. Gibbs doesn't get himself into situations where he needs saving. It's part of why he always gets the Special Agent of the Year award. He's better than good. He's perfect at his job."

With a slight sigh, Ducky inclined his head. "Now that's where you're wrong, Timothy. Where Jethro sees you as a youngster, you see him as all-knowing. As long as you view him that way, you won't be able to find a way to help him…including when he may need it most."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Ducky meant well, Tim knew, but even Ducky wasn't right 100% if the time. He certainly wasn't right now. Gibbs might be unreasonable at times, but in the end, methods questionable or not (and Tim did have doubts at times about how Gibbs got things done), Gibbs came through as a winner.

Tim, on the other hand, was the weak animal in the herd. The one that prey sought out as an easy meal. Gibbs had saved him…but for what? To keep the team's skill level down?

_Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, _part of him said. But he couldn't shake the feeling that, after seven years on the team, Gibbs still felt he wasn't able to look out for himself.

_A grown-up does not expect a child to thank him for things that are a grown-up's duty._

Only if he could somehow get better than Gibbs at something would he have a chance of leveling the field. But at what? The man had more than 20 years of experience than Tim did. He had military time. Was a prize sniper. Had seen combat. Tim had no hope there.

Tim had degrees that Gibbs didn't, and understood computers and some sciences much better than Gibbs did, but those things didn't matter in Gibbs' eyes. They weren't talents, just learned skills. They wouldn't save someone's life. They were nothing more than merit badges. Kids' stuff.

_Knowledge is power._ What if there was some way that he could learn something useful, something Gibbs _didn't_ know, that could come in handy some day? (Assuming there was such a body of knowledge…) It would have to be something practical, something intense, something with dangerous applications.

Tim had an idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**xoxoxoxoxo**

The spring afternoon sunbeams made a bright, rather fierce, backdrop to the NCIS Director at his desk in his powerful office. "You want to do _what_, McGee?" Vance raised his eyebrows at the young man who stood before him.

"There's a program I'd like to enroll in at FLETC, Director. I'd only be away for a few weeks. It's this one." Tim handed over the computer print-outs he'd made, and bit his lip before he could add, _I'd even give up my vacation time to take it._ That would be a sign of weakness and over-eagerness. Job training should come out of job time, not personal time.

Vance only glanced at the papers. "And you've come to me about it, rather than going through your supervisor? Why?"

Tim was prepared for that. "Well, sir, to be truthful, I wasn't sure how Agent Gibbs would take the suggestion. It's not a typical course for an agent working out of a field office…"

"The High Risk Operations Training Program isn't meant for field office personnel. It's for the people we send into danger zones, like Afghanistan. Most of the people who train in it are stationed in the Contingency Response Field Office in Georgia. With a limited number of slots available, why should I send _you_ there, Agent McGee? Are you going to volunteer for deployment?"

"No, sir. I think it would be a unique opportunity to show how skills learned in the courses can benefit the MCRT team .We deal with the possibility of a counter-terrorism situation daily, sir, and we can't be expected to wait until the CRFO sends a team up to help us. From what I've read of the program, I'm convinced it can help us make an immediate response to terrorist threats."

"And you're assuming that Agents Gibbs would not sign off on a recommendation, and that would doom your chances right there."

"Well…more or less, yes."

Vance pulled up a computer program. "Well, your timing is good, McGee. As a matter of fact, an agent from the CRFO who was scheduled for the next class, which starts in four weeks, notified me yesterday that she has to drop out because she's become pregnant and will have to put off going to Iraq. Let me give your request some thought. I'll also have to go back through the roster of people who requested, or who should have requested the class. I can't send you if there's someone else who needs the training sooner. But even if I can't send you now, I can keep you in mind for a later date."

"Thank you, sir." Tim smiled a stronger smile than he actually felt. The HROTP class was only offered a few times a year. Tim didn't know how he'd get through the next several months if he had to wait. And what would he do if Vance decided not to send him at all?

**xoxoxoxoxo**

_Why _do_ you want to go, Tim?_ his reflection in his bathroom mirror asked him.

_Because I want to prove something, _he answered in his mind.

_What do you want to prove?_

_That I'm strong…that I learn…that I'm…not a child, in need of being rescued._

_Is that why you phone your father? Because you're not a child?_

_That's not the same thing!_

_Isn't it?_

_I don't need to prove anything to Dad. It's _Gibbs_ who doesn't understand. Gibbs is the one who treats me like someone in need of protection. Dad trusts me to know what I'm doing._

_If you say so._

Angrily, Tim rubbed both hands through his hair and scowled at his reflection. He knew he had a good, responsible reason for putting in for the training…even if it wasn't exactly why he felt he needed to go.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

_Nearly four weeks later…_

"You're going where? When? Why?" Tony demanded, sputtering.

"You sound like a reporter, Tony," Tim smiled as he started filing papers that had accumulated on his desk. The okay from Vance had just come in—as a class candidate had backed out at the last minute. Tim had crowed on seeing Vance's email to him, and the others had gathered around his desk. The class would start at FLETC in three days.

"That sounds like…an inspired career move, McGee," Ziva said, slowly, still digesting Tim's announcement. "You will bring back a unique perspective from the HROTP. All that weaponry, and advanced defensive driving…"

"There's always something to learn, and I like learning! It's only a four-week course. I'm still not going to learn as much as you know, Ziva."

Tony's smile was tight. "You'd better not, McGee, because I'm not sure there's room on this team for two assassins."

Gibbs hadn't said anything, but from the corner of his eye Tim could see that the boss was studying him as intently as he would study someone he was interrogating.

"It may work out, it may not," Tim said. "I may come back feeling overwhelmed. But I'll never know unless I try."

"Our little Probie's growing up! Five years ago, you would be wilting under any doubts we sent your way. Now you're confident and ready to go."

"Almost ready," Tim laughed. "Tomorrow I have to do errands and laundry. Day after tomorrow is my travel day."

"I'm not sure about this, McGee. Don't get hurt while you're there," said Gibbs. "I need you healthy."

Tim kept his smile from faltering with some effort. "Understood." Was this friendly concern from Gibbs, or just more parental overreaching? He was not going to try to think about that now. _Positive outlook._

**xoxoxoxoxo**

_Five weeks after that…_

"McFLETC should be coming back right about three…two…one…"

"Hi, everyone!" Tim breezed in, his long legs making great strides, and his backpack seemingly weightless on one shoulder. He sat down in his chair with a satisfied _plop_!, his coffee cup moving gracefully with him.

"Welcome back, McGee. It is good to see you again." Ziva said warmly.

Tony even got up from his seat. "You look tanned and fit…I guess hazardous training and aggressive driving agrees with you."

Tim smiled back, aware that they could see the bruise on one side of his face. After four days it was still colorful. "I think it did. I learned a lot."

"What did you learn?"

"Not to be almost late to work, I hope," Gibbs said, coming in with his coffee. "Grab your gear. We're wanted back at Quantico." He eyed Tim with a sly smile. "McGee…you want to drive?"

"Will we get there in one piece?" Tony wondered, eyes rolling, snatching the keys from Tim.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Thus began a calm period at NCIS for Gibbs' team. Tim spoke about his training, but only in generalities. _Advanced defensive driving_. As usual, Tim was not once given the chance to drive the MCRT truck, so they took his word for it. _Hostile Environment Weaponry._ Would he ever have a chance to use a grenade launcher, or the bigger guns, or some of the other stuff he'd trained on? Maybe not. But knowing he _could_, now…that made all the difference. He seemed to have increased confidence in his abilities. At the same time, though, if you looked carefully, you could see a certain wariness about him, as if he felt he was being watched and judged, and perhaps found lacking.

Every time that Ziva and Tony asked him about FLETC, Tim would just laugh their questions off, saying it was nothing specific, unless he was ready to suit up for a war zone. Secretly Ziva and Tony felt he might have another reason for having taken the course, but if he did, he wasn't saying.

And if Gibbs was the least bit impressed by Tim's training class (or the certificate that came for Tim, sent through Gibbs, his supervisor, for "outstanding achievement" for finishing in the top 10% of his class, Gibbs didn't show it. Days slogged on, and the initial euphoria Tim had felt upon his return started trickling down into despair. _Gibbs probably thinks it was a glorified vacation for me, at the agency's expense,_ Tim thought, bitterly. _NCIS' version of Disneyland. Four grueling weeks, and what has it done for me?_

Abby's _cheer-you-up_ hugs resumed, and while Tim didn't mind them, they were also a reminder of how low his feelings had fallen. _I thought I had the solution. I thought that he would see, once I'd taken the courses…but no. I'm still a helpless child to him._

Tim kept stealing glances Gibbs' way while at his desk in the squad room, looking for a sign…anything…but Gibbs seemed mostly oblivious. In the one or two times when their eyes actually met, Tim hurriedly returned his own to his computer and hastily typed. He didn't even pause long enough to wonder what Gibbs was thinking.

_He thinks I'm nuts,_ he told himself later. _Nuts. Life is like a bowl of nuts, and Tim McGee is among them._

By now, Tim knew all the words to the cherries song. (It was still on Abby's Top 5 list.)

_People are queer, they're always crowing, scrambling and rushing about;  
__Why don't they stop someday, address themselves this way?  
__Why are we here? Where are we going? It's time that we found out.  
__We're not here to stay; we're on a short holiday._

_Yes, why_ am _I here?_ Tim wondered. _If I can't pull my own weight, why am I needed?_

_When has Gibbs ever needed anyone?_

_Never. And he never will._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Then came an incident…

One summer day, a few weeks after Tim's return from FLETC, a tip came in about a potential terrorist threat in Annapolis, Maryland. It sounded fairly weak, with more bluster from the anonymous tipster than usually paid off in these cases. A hoax, no doubt. Nonetheless, NCIS didn't want to turn over the glory of a possible bust to Homeland Security if they didn't have to. Vance sent his best team out to uncover what they could. He knew he didn't have to tell them to be careful. Doing so would only hurt their pride.

The suspected area was near the Naval Academy. The Academy covered substantial ground, almost 340 acres. Bancroft Hall, over 100 years old and one of the larger buildings, was the world's largest dormitory, housing all of the Academy's midshipmen and several other Academy functions.

" 'Mother B' they call it," Tim murmured as he and Gibbs stopped outside the enormous building. "My father talked about Bancroft Hall several times. He loved living there. Loved his time at Annapolis. Would have liked to come back to the Academy as a teacher, but…Sorry, boss; I'm rambling." xox_What is wrong with me? Gibbs doesn't care about stuff like this._

Gibbs only grunted, and inclined his head. They'd go inside. The Commandant of Midshipmen had an office here.

The walk through the Rotunda, in the center of the Hall, had Tim impressed. He had a fleeting thought of his father walking these same marble halls, decades ago…and then of a sudden realization that he'd rather be walking next to his father, a twinkly-eyed, quiet but mirthful man, rather than the dour Gibbs. _You can't always have what you want._

_The next time I call Dad, I'll ask him to tell me more about Bancroft Hall._

"McGee!" Gibbs snapped, quietly, and Tim pulled out of his daydream.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

The commandant had little to offer for the investigation other than concern. "As you can see, the communication we received on this threat made no specific mention of where the threat might lie. I hope to God it isn't here in Bancroft Hall. Our midshipmen are among the military's finest officers-in-training, but even so, even with regular drills, it takes awhile to evacuate a building this size."

"I hope so, too, Commandant," said Gibbs. "But there's no reason to think that it's likely to be here. It could be anywhere on the grounds…if there even is a threat."

"You have free rein here, Agent Gibbs."

"If there were strange things brought onto the grounds…maybe not _strange,_ but _unusual_…where would they be?"

"We don't have strange things here, Agent McGee. We don't go in for woo-woo. Anything like that would be turned over to the CIA."

"Got a storage facility?" asked Gibbs. "If someone smuggled in weapons, they'd likely hide them somewhere that they wouldn't be noticed quickly. Who would be in charge of your storage?"

"That would be Chief Petty Officer Knowles. The storage hall is over here." He pointed out a building on a map on the wall. "Though you're not going to find any surprises there."

Tim and Gibbs exchanged corner-of-the-eye glances. This wasn't the first time they'd encountered over-confidence in one's fiefdom.

Gibbs phoned Tony and Ziva, who'd been languishing by the gates, and sent them to look at the buildings around the storage hall.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

The storage hall was dreary as was to be expected. Not dirty, or even mildly dusty; you wouldn't find that on a military installation where cleanliness was higher than being a mere virtue. But there were dehumanizing, institutionally efficient arrangements: a lingering scent of old grease and recent paint jobs; the high, high ceiling; a sight of angle bracket shelving going up high that had been repainted too many times; and of dreary identical rows of boxes and crates under bleak institutional fluorescent lighting panels.

"This section is where we take things that are found on the grounds until we can figure out what to do with them," said the Chief Petty Officer. "Could be old settlement pottery, or arrowheads, or something washed up on the shoreline. It might be garbage, it might turn out to be a historical treasure."

"How long does it take you to determine that?" asked Gibbs.

"Could be days, could be months. Or longer. This box has been here since 1957. That's a little unusual." A flash of amusement showed in his eyes.

"You would know if something new was here, though?" asked Tim, eyes sweeping the rows.

"Yes, sir! Nothing gets shelved in this building without my signature."

All of Tim's nerves came alert. "And the security of this building, Chief?"

"No need to make it much more secure than any other installation on the Academy, sir. We trust our midshipmen, provided they sign in and out, and this building is off-limits to visitors. Each container is marked with the date of entry to this building, and a code number signifying the contents and the likely destination."

"There an understandable pattern to the code number, or do you use one of those random things?" asked Gibbs.

"I keep thinking we should use a security-checking randomizer, sir, but old habits are hard to break, and there are those who'd insist that if we started doing that with new containers, then we should redo every blessed box in here. There aren't enough days in the year for that. So it's just a sequential number."

Gibbs only nodded. Tim began slowly moving along the long rows of shelves. He remembered something that an instructor at FLETC had mentioned in class; more of a side note on Observation than anything else. _"In supermarkets and convenience stores, they'll place the things they most want you to buy at eye level. So if you're looking for something else, look high and look low:…up, above eye level…or at the shelves nearest the floor."_

With care, he walked. The boxes and crates were similar; almost maddeningly so. Though some were marked as being decades older than others, the style varied almost imperceptibly. Either the container was a cardboard box, or it was a plastic crate about the same size as the box. He wondered why some things went into boxes and some went into plastic crates. Weight? It probably wasn't important now.

_If someone wanted to hide something in here until a later time, the best way to make it be unnoticed would be to hide it high or low. High, or…_

"Chief!" he called, stretching the word out. A box had caught his eye, down on the next-to-the-bottom shelf of his row. "Do you know what the last number was that you used?"

"Well, that depends, Agent McGee. I do have a pretty good memory. For possible historical artifacts, it was…okay; I'll cheat." He drew out a Blackberry and tapped at it. "H1024. For possible Native American artifacts, it was NA031…"

"I'm guessing this isn't on your list." As the other two men approached, Tim pointed to a box that appeared to have been hurriedly marked _20100714 X999. _He shook his head. _Stupid, stupid. Of all the numbers to make up, don't call attention with something like "999"._

"Holy cow! The date's yesterday, but there's no 'X' grouping in our system."

"Let's take a look." Gibbs pulled the box out and sliced open the tape that sealed the box.

Tim bit back the words _Careful, boss_ that wanted to escape his lips. Gibbs wasn't even wearing gloves. Maybe Gibbs wasn't afraid, or even more than mildly suspicious, but Tim was.

"Looks like junk to me," said the Chief as Gibbs opened the lid.

_Don't, boss…_

"Something washed up on the shore," Gibbs agreed as the scent hit his nostrils. "I can't even tell what it is." Inside the box were five barnacle-covered, sea-stained cylinders, still carrying a whiff of the ocean. They even appeared still slightly damp. Something clicked in Tim's mind…

_It was a class in week two at FLETC. He could picture the instructor; a jovial man with an acute interest in the nastiest of weapons. He knew everything used in the last 500 or so years. A Wednesday afternoon. A day like this one: hazy, hot and humid; thunderstorms likely to pop up in late afternoon. A fly had droned near Tim's desk. The air conditioning had a different, low drone. Tim still had rapt attention; finding the subject extremely interesting._

_Weapons: World War I era. Both sides used shells that were fired into the enemy's position, containing—_

"_No, boss!"_ Tim cried as Gibbs reached in for one. Gibbs and the Chief looked startled as Tim dived for the box, snatching it, and, straightening up, stumbling away with it. _Exit! Where's the closest exit? Down that way?_

"McGee!"

The cylinders—_shells_, he now realized—_were_ damp, a doom to the integrity of the box. The weakened bottom fell apart, and the shells started to poke through. Tim scrambled to grab them and keep them from falling…unsuccessfully.

He'd only gotten about 80 feet away from the other two men.

Two shells hit the cement floor, and broke open. They all watched in horror as visible gas arose and yellow-brown oil dribbled onto the floor.

_"McGee!"_

"Get out!" Tim yelled, halting. "Get out! These are World War One gas shells, with poison gas! Phosegene, chlorine, mustard gas, maybe…"

He saw the other two men rooted, in shock. _"Get out!" _Tim repeated. "_What don't you understand?_The gas will spread through this room in no time. Now that the shells have ruptured, I can't leave here without carrying the contamination with me. _Run!"_

Gibbs made a step towards Tim, and Tim's reaction was to shift the tattered box in his arm and draw his gun. His voice had a slight wobble as he said, "Boss, no! It's too late for me to go. But you still can, if you hurry, and don't get much more exposure."

"Tim…"

"You think I _wanted_ it this way?" Tim laughed without mirth. _We're not here to stay. We're on a short holiday. _"We don't always get to choose the path we're sent to take. This one…this is what I got. Now," he swallowed, "No one comes near me unless they're wearing a hazmat suit! So _go! Now!"_

"He's right, Agent Gibbs," the Chief said, grabbing Gibbs' arm. "We can't help him this way. We have to get out!"

Tim saw the stricken look on Gibbs' face, and could almost see the thoughts racing in his head. He was desperately was trying to figure a way to not violate one of his life's tenets, the one about not leaving a man behind. But there wasn't a solution. Not this time.

"We'll be back, McGee. Don't you worry," Gibbs said, as he and the Chief headed back for the entrance.

"I know, boss," Tim forced a smile. But as the other two men left, the heavy metal doors closing with a _clang!_ he thought, _Oh, God…_

Tim knew it wouldn't be long before his skin erupted in painful blisters... and maybe worse. That's what the poison gases did.

_At least, though, Gibbs and the Chief should be safe._ Although they were older than he, their exposure had been minimal. Tim was glad he'd gotten as far away from them that he had before the _stupid_ box had fallen apart because some _stupid_ terrorist who probably had been hiding the shells on a boat in the Chesapeake Bay hadn't dried them thoroughly before packing them.

He sank down to the floor, and resisted putting his face in his hands, his gas-stained hands, all the while wondering why doing the right and true thing had to be so terrifying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**xoxoxoxoxo**

It took too long, in Gibbs' estimation.

While Ziva and Tony cordoned off the storage hall to keep the ever-growing and curious crowd away, Gibbs stood in uneasy company with his thoughts. It took too long to locate hazmat suits in the Academy ("We're sure we have them somewhere, sir, it's just a matter of…") Too long, once they were found, to suit up (Gibbs and a medic) and then to reopen the storage hall's door and get in. Too long to maneuver in the bulky suits down to where Tim sat, soberly, on a crate, and get him to put the third suit on (after the medic had checked his vital signs) and then guide him outside past the now-hushed crowd.

Too long a wait for a car to be put at their hazmat-suited disposal (Gibbs didn't want anyone else exposed) so they could drive to the helipad. And then too long a wait for a medivac helicopter to become available and land there. The Academy urged Gibbs to let them put one of their own choppers and pilots at his disposal. He said no; they'd wait for the medivac. He wanted aid handy…in case they needed it.

The Chief grumbled about having to go along in the short flight to Bethesda. He didn't like helicopters. It wasn't like he or Gibbs had a choice; they, too, would have to undergo decontamination at the hospital…once it was determined what the gas was. Gibbs had tasked Tony and Ziva with having to carefully get the shells (now packed in lead containers) to Abby at NCIS. She would have the answer faster than Bethesda's lab.

He checked his watch as the chopper lifted off. Just over two hours since Tim's exposure to the gas. Too damn long. Too damn long. At least Tim didn't seem to be suffering, not yet, which was a good sign. Gibbs racked his mind, reaching for what he knew of WWI-era gases. It wasn't much. Some gases, he thought, were deadly almost immediately. Others took time. All could have horrible effects (why else would they have been used?).

The chopper touched down on Bethesda Hospital's helipad, and medical corpsmen in their own Hazmat suits met them and escorted them through a special entrance to the decontamination lab. "How're you doing, McGee?" Gibbs asked his man, who'd been silent during the flight.

"I'm okay," Tim said back. "Just a little itchy."

Gibbs put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure this is nothing. We'll be back at NCIS in no time."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

For once, Tony didn't object when Ziva said she wanted to drive the truck back to NCIS. He knew she could go faster than he could dare to drive, and most likely get them back in one piece. Tony knew he could put up with a little temporary anxiety to get an answer for Tim's affliction.

His phone rang. Abby. "Why aren't you here yet?"

"Ziva stopped for a red light."

"Tell her not to do that."

"Tell Abby we are almost there," said Ziva, swerving around slower cars.

"You've been cleared to drive right into the Evidence Garage. Hurry, guys!"

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Gibbs paced in the small outer lobby to the decontamination wing. He didn't fool himself in thinking that he and the Chief were home free just because they were had no symptoms so far, nor because there were magazines to read and a water fountain. This was not a waiting room, not a prelude to a picnic. Their clothes had been taken from them and would probably be destroyed. He and the Chief wore borrowed scrubs. The identification of the gas would determine their treatment for their slight exposure, as well as Tim's.

His phone rang. (Thankfully, it had been one of the few items of his that so far had been lightly cleansed and returned to him in a flexible plastic case, and was working.) Abby. "What'cha got, Abbs?"

"It's nasty stuff, Gibbs, but at least it's not one of the fast-acting gases. It's a sulfur. Mustard gas, the type known as HD."

"What does that mean for McGee?"

"I'm not a doctor, Gibbs, but…hold on; Ducky wants to speak to you."

"Jethro, I don't have any experience in dealing with mustard gas, but I do know that the effects depend a lot on how much exposure Timothy got. It could be minor effects, or…well, I expect the doctors there will be better equipped to answer your questions."

"Yeah. Thanks, Duck."

"Let Abby speak with the treating physician. They can speak chemistry to each other."

Geek to geek. "All right; I'll get him."

"Wait, Gibbs. Before you put the doctor on—how is Tim doing? Tell me truthfully."

"Truthfully, I don't know, Abbs. They've got him in a treatment room. I'm still in decontamination. All I know is, by the time we got in here, he was complaining of itches and sore eyes, and he had a cough."

"Gibbs, that's…not good. Usually people don't develop symptoms of mustard gas burns until about 24 hours from exposure, unless…it's a high exposure, or their skin is sensitive, like, like, Tim's is, or…"

"He'll be okay, Abby. Don't scare yourself," Gibbs said gruffly. "Let me give you the doctor."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

With the gas known, it was a simple, almost routine-seeming, measure to treat Gibbs and the Chief. They were sent to shower…long, long showers. When at last they were feeling prune-like, they were allowed to come out of the showers and change into fresh scrubs. Then, after quick check-ups with no symptoms, they were told they could go, with instructions to seek medical help immediately if symptoms developed.

Gibbs had no intention of leaving, however. He waved farewell to the Chief, who drove off with his wife, and he then went to the Decontamination wing's proper waiting room. Tony had phoned to say that he was on his way with Ziva, Abby and Ducky.

When they arrived, Abby rushed forward to give Gibbs a hug. "You're all decontammed, Gibbs?"

"I'm fine, Abbs. Minimal exposure."

"Green's not exactly your color, boss," Tony gibed, indicating the scrubs.

"No grey ones in your size, Jethro?" Ducky added until Gibbs stopped glaring and smiled slightly. It was a tense situation, they all realized. No one wanted to say what they really feared.

Soon a doctor came out and talked to them. "Hi, I'm Stella Crane. You've brought us an interesting case! I haven't seen HD burns since a stint I did in Africa on a World Health Organization study mission."

"How is McGee?" asked Ziva. "Can we see him?"

"Not for awhile yet. He's still in treatment and hasn't been settled in a room."

"What is the treatment?"

"First, once we knew what we were dealing with, we started neutralizing the exposure. Unfortunately, that's problematic since the delay in identifying the chemical meant we couldn't do anything at the start."

"There's an antidote, surely…" said Tony.

"I wish. We can only treat the burns as burns."

"He has…burns?"

"Second-degree burns, just starting to develop. Mustard gas, whether in solid, liquid, or gaseous form, is thorough. It seeps through clothing and of course has an impact on bare skin. It can also affect the eyes and the breathing system. It all depends on the amount of exposure.

"It's fortunate that the chemical wasn't phosgene or chlorine. Often soldiers in the First World War encountering HD had enough time to put some distance between it and themselves so that it just threw off their ability to fight in their assigned positions."

"McGee was trapped in the storage hall with it for 20-30 minutes," said Gibbs. Abby squeezed Tony's and Ziva's hands for comfort.

The doctor had a fleeting grimace, and then forced back an unconvincing smile. "We're doing everything we can," she said. "Normally, HD exposure isn't fatal."

"Tim McGee is an above-normal person," said Ziva. "I hope that matters for something here."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

It was many hours before they could see Tim, and even then, it was only for a brief time. They had to wear face masks to prevent giving him an infection should his blisters open.

He looked terrible, covered in gauze as he was, with an IV line in place. "I've felt better," he said, with a short laugh that led to a bout of coughing. When he couldn't stop, the nurse came in and bade them all come visit him another day.

They returned in the evening of the next day. Ducky looked grim as they walked into the hospital. "Understand that these early days can be hardest," he said, simply.

Tim was, indeed, in worse shape. More of his face was padded in gauze, and he had a tube down his throat to aid in breathing. His eyes were reddened, and he said his vision was a little blurry. But he laughed about being happy on his painkillers, and he thanked them, sincerely, for coming.

The next day he couldn't see visitors. Tim had gone blind.

"Don't be too alarmed," Ducky had said to his shocked friends after getting the news from the hospital in his daily pre-visit phone call. "It's not unexpected in mustard gas burn cases. In most cases, the vision returns."

"Ducky, I can do without the 'little optimist' act," Tony snapped. "I'm trying, but I really can't see the silver lining in this. Oh, wait—McGee can't see it either, because he's gone blind!"

"Really, Tony—"

Gibbs headslapped Tony. "Stop it. You're not helping, either."

Ducky began again, his face flushed with the anger he felt. "Yes, Tony; Timothy is lucky, in a fashion. The burn surface area of his body totals only 25%...that's only borderline critical. It could have been so much worse, given what he went through. It's a miracle it wasn't worse. He's getting excellent treatment, he went in in good health, and his spirits are good. He's a fighter. Now, of course I can't predict his outcome…but I think there's good reason for optimism."

**xoxoxoxoxo**  
"Get out there and find the guy that did this!" Gibbs ordered Ziva and Tony. It was better than having them underfoot and restless in the squad room; which was marginally better than having them sit with Tim in the hospital while his burns deepened. All too often they were shooed out of his room so Tim could be tended to by the doctors. There were even periods when his pain was so great that a light coma was induced. Normally, reactions to HD weren't this bad, but…

Tim's teammates set on the case with vigor, running down leads, pushing Abby to find something on the shells (as if she needed pushing), doing everything they could think of. Within a week they had suspects in custody; two disgruntled midshipmen, on the verge of washing out. Interrogation was not gentle, but nonetheless letter-perfect. Nothing was to go wrong with this case. With satisfaction, they turned the matter over to JAG.

"Now it's up to you, Timmy," Abby said to the picture of him on one of her monitors. "You've gotta come through for us."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Angrily, Tony took a last look at the material he'd printed out and then shoved it off his desk and into his for-the-shredder bin with such force that the small container tipped over. This caused him to swear at it and accuse its ancestors as well.

"I doubt that the plastic from which it came cares much, Tony," Ziva remarked.

This caused him to level a finger at her, but he held back the reply he was going to make.

"I have not found anything yet, either," she said. "But I have not stopped looking."

"Well, stop looking," Gibbs growled, having just stepped out of the elevator. "This case is over for us."

"But, Gibbs—"

"Got suspects in custody and gathered enough evidence to put them away. JAG says it's one of the best jobs this team has ever done…also one of the fastest. The case is closed. What more do you want?"

"Justice," said Tony.

"You can't have that, or retribution. That's not in our scope."

"I don't want it for me. I want it for some guy in a hospital bed who may still die of burns if he gets an infection, which they say happens all too often. He doesn't deserve that."

Gibbs sighed. "No. We never do."

Ziva clasped her hands tightly. "Gibbs, the case does not feel closed. Tony and I—we think there is more to it than those two midshipmen who claim they found the shells on a fishing expedition off the coast."

"It does happen, now and then, Ziva."

"Perhaps. But is the terrorism angle fully closed out? If not, Annapolis—or somewhere else—might be open to another threat."

Gibbs studied them, and then said at length, "Build a case. Convince me, and I'll let you reopen it. You have until the end of the day."

Ziva and Tony got busy on their computers while Gibbs went out in search of coffee. "It may take a lot to persuade him," Ziva remarked.

"I noticed. I don't know why he's being so stubborn about this."

"You think he does not care about McGee."

"That's ridiculous."

"You think we want better for McGee than Gibbs does, then."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Why is that?"

"Because McGee will always be the weakling of the group, and Gibbs feels he has to protect him. Even McGee recognizes that."

"That is foolish. McGee has seven years experience as an agent."

"Doesn't matter. You and I are willing to see him as an equal—almost. Gibbs isn't. This irks our Probie."

"Aha! You still call him 'Probie!'"

"Force of habit. I know McGee's felt down about this—"

"He recognized the shells for what they were! That is something that we could not do. At least, I do not think I could. And I am certain that you could not."

Tony frowned at her little dig. "But that'll all be forgotten if there really are more terrorists behind this…"

She wadded a piece of paper into a ball. "That is true. McGee needs a big win. Rather, we need a big win to keep McGee's name on top."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

A testament to their dedication, they actually had something when Gibbs returned with his coffee.

Ziva put files up on the plasma screen. "Our suspects in custody: William David Wallis and Jerry no-middle-name Horne. Both are from well-to-do New England families; both got into Annapolis based on a letter of recommendation from their Congressman."

"Like so many other prospective midshipmen," Tony chimed in. "They claimed not to have known each other before meeting at Annapolis, but…"

"…their mothers are actually cousins," Ziva said, clicking to bring up drivers licenses for two middle-aged women. "Bad move. This is easy enough to find out, once it was determined that their mothers were born in the same town. Both of the mothers were in their late teens in the mid 1960s."

"Both were members of SDS. That's—"

" 'Students for a Democratic Society'," Gibbs filled in. "Radical group, sometimes militant, investigated by the FBI and who knows what else. Even the NIS probably had some files on them. So?"

"Not just members. They were demonstration leaders; we've found that much." Tony held his breath. It wasn't much to go on, yet.

Gibbs waved his free hand. "Oh, all right. Go with it, Realize that you have to put it aside if a case—" But Ziva was already pounding her keyboard and Tony was on the phone. Secretly, Gibbs hoped that they were right.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Within two hours they had links too coincidental to be dismissed without investigation. Ziva led off. "Shera Morrison Wallis and her cousin, Elizabeth Kristen Traynor (she kept her maiden name), both attended Yale at the same time in the same graduating class, the class of 1974. Both had already attended SDS meetings while in high school and were vehemently against the Vietnam war."

"Wallis went into Yale to study physics. She got a job as a research/developer at a munitions plant. Traynor started out on the same route—oh, you're going to love this, boss. She works in chemistry/explosives development." Tony waited a beat. "For the Navy." He nodded to Ziva who clicked up the image of Traynor's Navy ID.

Gibbs breathed. "Okay, we now have an official case. I'll alert the Director."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

How did the son of a radical get into the Naval Academy? How did a radical wind up as a Navy officer?

In MTAC, Gibbs spoke by video connection with Traynor's superior officer. "Captain Chavez, Lieutenant Commander Traynor has been working under you for how long?"

"Let me see…since I took this command, fifteen years ago, Agent Gibbs. We're both about ready for retirement, I think." The white-haired man smiled.

"Has she ever espoused radical ideas? Made you wonder about her…loyalties?"

"Of course not. She's as good a lab worker-slash-developer as you'll find."

"You know she has a son at Annapolis."

"Yes, sir! I've known Jerry since he was a pup. Wrote a letter of recommendation for him, at Elizabeth's request, though I think the Congressman's letter held more weight."

"Yes, sir. What is the Commander working on now?"

"That's classified, Agent Gibbs…"

Ziva spoke up. "Do you know if her family likes to go boating, Captain? Pleasure boating?"

"Yes, ma'am. They own a nice 40-footer. They like to go out for a little deep-sea fishing."

Aha.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Tony placed a phone call. "Probie! How ya doin'? I'm glad to catch you awake."

"Awake, but a little fuzzy."

"Well, I won't keep you long. I just need to pick your brain. These shells—any idea where they could have come from, if they didn't really wash up from the Chesapeake?"

"No idea."

"Think, Tim. Did they say in your class what the likelihood was that WWI shells would be lining the American coast?"

There was a pause. "The instructor said it was unlikely. Stuff is found, now and then; some fishermen in Massachusetts pulled up shells with mustard gas in their fishing nets a few months ago. But it's believed that there's really very few WWI shells just laying around, waiting to be found."

"Go on…"

"Hmmm…so maybe mine came from someone's private collection."

"I've heard of strange collections, McGoo, but that's about the strangest."

"Yeah. It's lame. Forget it. I'm going to go to sleep now."

"Wait! No! That didn't come out right." Tony had lowered his voice almost to a whisper. Mentally, he was kicking himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." Deep breath. "You still with me?"

"…Yeah."

" So let's assume that someone is collecting these, uh, old-fashioned weapons-of-less-than-mass-destruction. Illegally. What does FLETC say about how many a terrorist might need to form an attack?"

"You have to look at a terrorist's objectives. Mustard gas might kill a few to a small number of people, and injure many more. It's frightening. But it would probably only be stage one in a multi-stage attack. You get people afraid after a round of mustard gas, and then you go in for a strike with the really deadly gases: phosgene or chlorine."

"Ye gods. That makes perfect sense. Got to run, Probie!" He added, "You get better soon!" but then realized the phone connection had ended.

"Get better soon," he mumbled again.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

"Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Traynor's family boat is docked in the Chesapeake," Ziva announced shortly afterwards. "The marina fees were paid just last month. Normally, it is kept closer to their summer home in Maine."

"She take much vacation time lately?" asked Gibbs.

"Her leave records show that she had indeed taken several days of annual leave this year. Her vacation time balance is down to 32 hours."

"Where has she been?"

"Banking records show a lot of activity in this area, instead of her home in Connecticut. She made an ATM withdrawal in Maryland, near Annapolis, just two days ago. She is staying at a hotel there."

"Her husband?"

"Still in Connecticut. He has a business there and puts in long hours."

"Theory, boss," said Tony. "Suppose the commander has been waiting…for years and years…for the right chance to get back at the so-called 'military industrial complex'. Suppose that's been her plan ever since she signed on with the Navy. Maybe her cousin Wallis is in on it; maybe she's not."

Vance came up to them. "The SECNAV was so proud of McGee's save at Annapolis that he was happy to put the thumbscrews to Captain Chavez. The top-secret project that Commander Traynor is working on involves finding potential uses for old poisonous gases that were supposedly 'destroyed' but which we all know were stockpiled after WWI."

Ziva hung up her phone. "Shera Wallis is on vacation. She's checked into the same hotel as her cousin in Annapolis."

"Maybe they're just here to bail their darling sons out of jail."

"Or maybe…this is stage two," said Gibbs. "Let's go!"

**xoxoxoxoxo**

"Hi, uh, Captain?"

"Ensign, ma'am," the youthful officer smiled. "Ensign Javon Hendricks. Can I help you with something?"

The two middle-aged women in street clothes looked a little bashful. "Sorry," said the one who had spoken. "I try to learn, and I just can't tell the ranks by the insignia!" She looked around the vast space of Bancroft Hall's Rotunda. "What a beautiful building! We, uh…we wanted to see our nieces. They attend the Academy."

"How nice. You ladies must be very proud of them. If you will go over to the information booth there at that far wall, the person on duty will help you find them."

"Thank you so much, Ensign," said the other lady. "Maybe we'll just sit down and catch our breath first. We've done a lot of walking and the day is warm."

"There are benches all around. Take your time, ladies, and enjoy your visit to Annapolis." Tipping his hat and smiling, the ensign walked off. The women returned the smile and made for a bench in a dimly-lit area, near an exit.

"There, Elizabeth; do you have everything?"

"You've asked me that a hundred times, Shera. Yes; everything's neatly packed. The canisters in this tote bag will open on a 20-second timer. We'll be just going out the door then."

"How lethal did you make the concentration?"

"Oh, very lethal."

"Well, let's get on with it, shall we?"

"I think so. I'd like to stop for dinner at a place Jerry mentioned in one of his emails. Wonderful Spanish tapas, he said. But it's best to go early because seating is limited."

"Let's do it now, then!"

"All right. Get ready…" Lt. Commander Traynor fiddled inside her plain blue tote bag, a Navy gift shop purchase, and in a moment a soft hissing was heard.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

The agents burst into the Rotunda. The spot on the Academy with the highest concentration of people—particularly now that classes were over for the day—seemed the most likely place for an attack. The pictures of the two women were engraved on their minds.

"There!" Tony pointed. Two women, across the Rotunda, were just getting up from a bench.

The team crossed the floor in seconds. "NCIS! Federal agents!" Gibbs thundered, and he and his team all had their guns drawn.

The women looked shocked and were rooted. "Oh, dear," said one. "This is very awkward…"

Suddenly the other woman dashed for the exit. Gibbs blocked her way. "You don't understand!" she shrieked. "Let me out!"

"Gibbs—I smell…hay!" Ziva cried, and looked around. She immediately found the tote bag, and, prepared, threw a containment sack over it. It would buy them a little time. "Evacuate the building!" she ordered. "This is phosgene!"

"How can we evacuate—oh, silly question. Never mind," said Tony, who then pulled the fire alarm that was just a foot away.

_Thank you, McGee,_ he thought. _Gibbs may not have faith in you, but I do_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**xoxoxoxoxo**

Tim's father flew in to see him. Tim's mother was stuck halfway across the world at a conference that had ended just as the local airline pilots went on strike. "She wanted me to tell you to keep fighting," Kale McGee said, placid as always.

"Mom always was the warrior of the family," Tim laughed, and then he sobered. "I'm glad you came, Dad. I feel like I can talk with you about things that I can't say to the others."

"You can tell me anything, Tim."

"That course I took at FLETC…I thought it would make things better. But it didn't."

"Why do you feel that way?"

"I thought I'd get some respect from Gibbs. It was a hard course, Dad. A lot of physical stuff, not just in the driving. The studying of the advanced weaponry...bigger, deadlier stuff that what we see every day, but which we really should be aware of. And I did a lot of researching in my down time, which is where I picked up a lot more stuff that may come in handy some day."

"What did Gibbs say about it?"

"Nothing. He didn't even comment on my being gone for almost five weeks."

Kale smiled, and then remembered that Tim couldn't see the smile. "You know him a lot better than I do, but I do know that sometimes a leader, after something like that, will wait to see how a subordinate applies the knowledge. Getting a certificate that says you were in a class doesn't mean much to the job if you can't show you know how to use it."

"And how am I going to do that now?" Tim grumbled.

Kale lightly touched Tim's arm, and laughed. "I'd say you've already done it."

**xoxoxoxoxo**

His father could only stay for a few days, but it was enough to boost Tim's confidence, and get him thinking. Four days later, the swelling around Tim's eyes eased, and over the period of a week, his sight returned. Tony took this as a sign that Tim was up for videos, and brought in DVDs to entertain him. Tim's airways took a little longer to recover, but after another week, the breathing tube was removed. He managed to escape infection (after a few scares) so his blisters shrank over time and his immune system returned to almost normal levels.

Twenty-seven days after the mustard gas encounter, Tim went home. Ziva and Abby were his proud escorts.

He still didn't feel 100%, and had been told that he wouldn't, for awhile. There might always be some lung damage—Tony said, with a great rolling of eyes, that _finally_ he and Tim had something in common—and there was the sobering comment from his doctor that the exposure might increase his chance of developing cancer later in life, but that was only a possibility. NCIS told Tim to take as much time as he needed before returning to work.

Abby and Tony stopped by his place one night, bringing dinner. They stayed late and talked, and when Tim brought out a mid-evening dessert, he grinned at Abby. "Cherry pie," he said. "Do you remember, Abby, weeks ago when you were singing _Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries_ in your lab?"

Tony pulled at his collar. "She's still singing it. When you come back, you'll feel like you're in a time warp, Probie."

"I _like_ that song," Abby said in mock protest. "I know you like cherries, Tim."

"I do. Although after first hearing your song, I was a little depressed, and thought of it as _Life is Just a Bowl of Pineapples._ You know, the hand grenade type."

"You always were the cheerful one on our team," said Tony.

"Do you still feel that way, Tim?"

"Sometimes. I'm not sure."

"Hand grenades, ready to explode? But you can deal with that now, with your super-duper FLETC training, can't you? You looked so self-assured when you came back from Georgia, Tim. I expected you could get through _anything_."

"_Almost_ anything," Tim said, and thought of the conversation he still had not had with Gibbs.

**xoxoxoxoxo**

After three weeks of home convalescence, Tim went back to work. His own skin had nicely grown back by itself to replace the blister-damaged areas. Only in a few spots, normally covered by clothing, did some light scars remain. An occasional cough still came out, but overall, he was fit.

On the first day back, Gibbs sent Tony and Ziva out to check on a tip. When they were gone, Gibbs wheeled his chair over to Tim's desk, so they were at eye level. "Got a feeling we should have talked about something," Gibbs grunted.

"Oh?" said Tim, perplexed.

"I owe you." Gibbs extended his hand for a shake.

"For—?"

"You saved my life back there at Annapolis. And the Chief's. It was a damn fool risk you took, but you evidently knew what you were doing, so I can't fault you. Thanks."

The hand was still out. Tim shook it. "But boss, you don't owe me. Back in the parking garage, earlier this year, you—"

His hand now free, Gibbs raised it in a signal to halt. "This isn't about keeping score, McGee. Not in our line of work. I know I said 'I owe you', but that's just an expression. This sort of thing will happen again, and then again. I'm glad you're strong enough, and have the courage and dedication, so that we can count on you."

Tim was flabbergasted. "Thanks," he said, shyly.

"You think I'm angry with you because you cut out for five weeks to take an overrated class."

"It wasn't overrated. It was good," Tim argued mildly, his hands in his lap.

"Why _did_ you want to take it? And why didn't you come to me first for the training approval?...You don't have to answer that last one."

But Tim had more courage now, more than he did back in April. "You would have said 'no', boss. I know you believe in learning by doing, learning on the job. And you're a good teacher. But—"

When Gibbs didn't respond, Tim plowed on. "But you don't know everything, boss. There's always advancements in technology; useful stuff. And even if I never hold another grenade launcher, like I did in training, I'll know how to use one, if the opportunity arises. And…I learned many other things. Like weapons other than guns and knives. FLETC has outstanding teachers."

In the long silence that followed, Tim became afraid that he'd gone too far. Then Gibbs said, "My job is to not only get you guys to get the work done, but also to keep you safe. Sometimes, it's…hard to not act like a…"

"That's okay, boss. Tony's fond of saying that he's 'on your six'. I think I understand now." _It's not just Gibbs looking out for me, or for us. We all look out for each other._

"We have to act quickly, partly on instinct, partly on training that's been so drilled into us that it's _like_ instinct. You reacted, in that storage hall, based on your training. You didn't stop to think about saving me and the Chief, or owing me. You did the right thing automatically, because you had been trained to recognize the danger. And your help saved the lives of hundreds of midshipmen and officers."

Tim was at a loss for words. It sounded so simple, coming from Gibbs. And of course, he was right.

Gibbs smiled. "Ya think I should send Tony and Ziva to that course, too?"

"Well, uh—"

A laugh, and a pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry; I'd rather see you bask in being special for awhile. I'm sure you'll have lots to show us."

_He does understand!_ "Thanks, boss."

"No, Tim. Thank _you_."

-END-


End file.
